


Broken

by Geu23



Series: Mary only had one lamb [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geu23/pseuds/Geu23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Mary only had Dean? Pilot AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, the guys that do make the profit though.  
> Spoilers: Season 1 pilot, Season 2 & Season 4 references  
> Warning: Tear jerker, gore and Major Character Death

  
{nul}

1st November ‘83  
Mary tucked her son into bed, his blonde hair was ruffled from running his hands through it, getting used to the new short texture. John had claimed that he was a big boy, already four years old, and the long thick locks that made him look like a girl had to go.  
  
Her little man was snuggled against his pillow, wide green eyes droopy and tired with sleep, and his small hands fisting his fire truck themed blanket.   
  
He was going to be her only little man.   
  
John and her, they had planned their future. It was going to be perfect! A house, a van (but that changed to a more breath-taking car), a couple of kids. They wanted to have children, more than one but unfortunately there were none to follow unless via adoption. It had been a difficult pregnancy and he was born prematurely, his lungs under developed and his body too small.   
  
The doctors had told the both of them that they (the medical staff) had done the best they could for their little boy and that due to the complication during his birth it was highly unadvised that Mary try to get pregnant again. They claimed it was too dangerous for her and that the unborn child would most likely expire before its birth.  
  
Dean wiggled as Mary settled on the edge of his bed, her hand stroking his face, her fingertips painting unseen patterns on his freckled nose and cheeks. He giggled, eyes twinkling as he grabbed his mother’s hand and laid his cheek against it, a happy content huff as a dazzling smile spread on his young face.  
  
Her thumb stroked his cheek in rhythmic circles as she sang to him, lulling him to sleep with every softly sung verse, her little boy’s eyes were taking longer and longer to open before he finally drifted off to the land of fire trucks and dinosaurs.  
  
“Goodnight Dean. Angels are watching over you.”  
  
It wasn’t the perfect life she wanted, but it was as close as possible.

{een}

2nd November ‘83  
Azazel was furious. It had reached the ten year mark for one Mary Winchester, previously named Campbell, and there was no infant in the house. He had lurked in the shadows, drifting from room to room, searching for the prize that she had unknowingly given to him in exchange for her husband.  
  
But there was no infant! No infant to corrupt, to soil its innocent vessel with a few drops of blood down its throat. There was no prize for him here, not even the child that was asleep upstairs. He supposed he could kill John again and make Mary pay but where was the fun in that?  
  
He appeared in front of the master bedroom door, and with a twist of his power the door soundlessly swung open to reveal Mary asleep. He was angry and she would be the one to feel his wrath.   
  
With a flick of his wrist Mary was flung off the bed and against the wall, her mouth and eyes open in shock and fear. He scowled at her, his eyes flashing yellow as he tightened his grip on her.   
  
“Mary, Mary, Mary. Look at you, after ten years and you’ve gone soft. I would have thought you would have placed some protection around this place but no? Your need of being normal, of being  _safe_ , that you allowed yourself to be this vulnerable?” He scolded mockingly.  
  
She glared at him, the fiery hunter shinning under her skin, prowling angrily. She could not say anything, her vocal cords frozen by his will.  
  
“I thought by now you’d have another little tyke. I’m sure Johnny boy would have wanted another little one. So why haven’t you?” he growled, his hand fisting as he controlled his anger. Killing her too soon would not do.  
  
“I couldn’t get pregnant even if I wanted to and that’s a good thing!” she spat, her face pale.  
  
Azazel narrowed his eyes, brow furrowing. “You mean to tell me that you are not able to have another child?”  
  
She said nothing. He already knew the answer.  
  
He stepped closer to her, a hand pressed against her abdomen. Her organs were missing, taken out. “I could heal you. You can have another child or two,” he suggested, his hand pressing down more firmly, “Give you back the chance to have a bigger family. But of course I’ll be taking the second child for payment as arranged prior to this.”  
  
“Even if you did heal me, I wouldn’t bear another child! Not for John and not for you! Not for the price of that child,” she hissed.  
  
He scowled and moved away from her. This was a loss and one that was a big one. He slashed her stomach, blood staining her white dressing gown as she screamed in pain. He ripped her flesh open, tearing her organs with invisible claws as he pushed her up the wall and onto the ceiling.  
  
She was crying out, tears trailing down her cheeks as she knew – she  _knew!_ – her fate. She was going to die. He was going to watch, hidden from view.  
  
He was going to watch  **everything!**  
  
Her screaming and crying had brought her son out of his room, looking for his dear mama and he froze in the hall, eyes wide and tearing up as he stared in horror as his mother breathed her last stuck to the ceiling. The boy’s father had rushed into the room, and looked in dread and grief as his wife burst into flames.  
  
“Mary! No, Mary!” John cried out, arms trying to cover his face and reach out and grab his burning dead wife from the ceiling. It was pointless but Azazel continued to watch the man struggle from the heat and the pain.  
  
The boy was crying, fat droplets falling as he watched too. The fire was spreading, growing bigger, growing hotter as it continued to feed its endless hunger to destroy.   
  
The boy cried out as the flames reached the hall, greedy hot fingers grasping onto the plaster of the walls as it continued to roar.   
John stopped his hopeless frantic useless attempts at rescuing his dead wife; there was the boy he had to take care of.  
  
John raced out of the room, coughing at the smoke as he scooped his child and raced down the stairs and out the door, to safety.  
Azazel disappeared. There were more ‘appointments’ he had to attend to.

{twee}

2nd November ‘83  
John watched as the firemen stopped the raging inferno, to try to leave the house and its contents salvageable at least. He rocked his arms around his silent boy as they both shed tears. Dean was still, frozen as he watched the firemen rush back and forth, doing their jobs to stoke out the flames of destruction.  
  
John kept reliving that moment; that horrible, terrible moment of his wife pinned to the wall, her lovely white dressing gown tarnished dark red with her life blood. Her blonde hair fanned around her head like a halo before the flames sparked and engulfed her frozen form, the smell of burning flesh as her body blackened.  
  
He shifted, holding Dean closer. It was the sound of his crying boy that brought him back. Mary was gone, there was no way of saving her, or her… corpse, but there was Dean and himself to save. They were still breathing and there was no way John was going to let that come to a stop.  
  
Dean whimpered and turned away from their blackened home, his face pressed against his chest, his small hands grabbing at the shirt in handfuls as he sobbed. John rubbed soothing circles on his child’s back, shushing him as he continued watching the men do their duty.  
  
“It’s gonna be alright buddy. I got you; I’ll take care of you Ace. Shh, daddy’s here.”  
  
5th November ‘83  
John hardly slept, his eyes bloodshot as he watched the people gathered. His son standing beside him, blonde head tilted down, staring at the ground. Dean hadn’t spoken since that early morning. Not a single little peep. He was just silent, searching for a mother that can’t come back and crying.  
  
John had tried to get him to talk, to get him to open up and say something, anything but to no avail. The boy just did not want to talk. John was relieved that he did not have to be the one to tell Dean his mother died, but wasn’t it better to simply bear the pain of words, then to make the four year old child be the witness of his mother’s death?  
  
The priest said a few words and offered prayer. John scowled. What did God have to do with this? How could He allow something like this happen? To have something pin his wife on the ceiling and set her on fire?  And to have her only son watch? What God does that?  
  
They lowered the empty – there was nothing left of his dear sweet Mary, nothing at all – casket into the ground. Everyone came up to him and offered their condolences; that they were sorry that she was gone, sorry that she died, sorry that they can’t help  _make it bearable._  
  
Dean was crying again, his hand tugging on John’s borrowed black slacks, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head. John sighed, tired and grieving and empty, and crouched down, pulling his silently sobbing boy into his arms.   
  
Dean was in pain too, crying out at night in terror, screaming for his mum to come back to heal the hurts in his heart. But she couldn’t and Dean still didn’t understand, or he did was denying it.   
  
Dean hardly ate and only took a mouthful or two when John begged him. John had to ask him, “one more bite. You gotta eat Ace. Please, one more bite.” John pleaded. And it was a challenge to not force it down his son’s throat which would only serve to upset the boy further.  
  
John raised, his son holding onto him, and looked at the empty graveyard and slowly made his way to back to his friend’s house.  
  
9th November ‘83  
Their house was ruined. Part of the roof – where Mary burned – was caved in, the walls blackened and the paint peeling off the wood. He moved out of the car and went to the back, unfastening Dean from the child’s car seat and taking him out before closing the door with a creak.  
  
The both of them were here to take what was salvageable before John went to stay at his aunt’s place. ‘There won’t be much left… But I guess it’s worth a look…’ thought John as he grabbed the cardboard boxes from the trunk.  
  
“Come on Buddy, let’s go.”  
  
John pushed him a little as he walked towards the house, their home. Dean followed silent as a mouse as John pushed the unlocked door open. The smell of damp and burnt wood filled the musty thick air.   
  
“Okay, Dean, if you find something you want to keep or think we can bring you come show me alright?”  
  
Dean spared him a glance before the boy was gone, going into another room. John sighed deeply as he picked up the empty boxes and walked into what was once their living room. He placed the boxes on the old, ruined coffee table and started sifting through his –  _their_  – belongings.   
  
He placed some books into the box, followed by photo frames and photo albums as well as a trinket or two. He did the same in the dining room and kitchen. John sealed up the two boxes worth of belongings before he climbed the stairs.   
  
He went into the bathroom and removed whatever was still useable before he went into Dean’s room. It was wet and messy but there was no Dean. Where was his boy?  
  
He placed the box down and went to look for his son only to find him in the master bedroom, staring with wet eyes at the collapsed roof. His face was already wet and his chin quivered. ‘Oh baby boy were you here this whole time?’   
  
John swept Dean into a hug, his son’s arms wrapped around his neck as his body trembled. He rubbed Dean’s back, swaying as he tried to calm Dean down. Bringing his traumatized son with him was probably not a very good idea.  
  
He should have left him back at Andrea’s place but the boy had broken down in tears as he had closed the front door which left him no choice but to bring the crying boy with him. Maybe he should have postponed or sent someone else to do it…   
  
After calming his son down, the two of them decided which items were deemed salvageable or the item was just too damaged to bring along. With four boxes in total, John made two trips to get them into the trunk of the car.   
  
Dean hovered at the entrance of the house, his eyes wandering the burnt shell of their home. John called out to him, telling him to come back to the car. The boy cast one more thorough glance before he patted the frame of the door and approached the car. 

30th December ‘83  
John stood stock still as he stared at the doctor, unbelieving of the lies that came out of the man’s mouth. His boy was fine! He was getting better, he had been smiling and he’d been crying less and he was friends with his aunt’s grandchildren, he was getting better!  
  
The doctor was directing him to a seat and had asked for a glass of water. John didn’t care; who the heck wants a glass of water? Not him, maybe it was for the lying doctor.  
  
“My son,” John croaked, “he was getting better. He was getting so much better so how could this happen?!”   
  
He pushed the man’s warm hand away, demanding he answer the question. How could that be their answer? His boy was fine!  
  
“Mr Winchester please calm down.”  
  
“I am calm!” John shouted, feeling anything but. “What happened to my son?! Where is he?! Where’s my boy!?” his voice wavered, panic growing as he saw the doctor and nurses faces.  
  
“Why are you looking like that? Where’s Dean?”  
  
“Mr Winchester – John. Your son is gone.”  
  
“Why didn’t you and your staff look after him more carefully?! He wouldn’t be missing then—”  
  
“John,” the doctor gripped his shoulder tightly, his face anguished. “Your son passed away. His heart gave out.”  
  
John stopped cold. No. This couldn’t be happening! Not his son, anything but his son. Oh God, not his little boy. Dean. Not Dean!   
  
John collapsed.  
  
2nd January ‘84  
John watched as the casket – it was small, so very  _small_  – was lowered. His family was gone. His beautiful wife and his charming handsome son were gone, taken from him too suddenly.   
  
He had gone back to Lawrence to bury his son beside his wife. Mother and son, side by side, even though Mary’s casket was empty. It was unfair. How could this have happen to his family? They were good people and yet they were taken from him, ripped away from him so suddenly.  
  
His son, his four year old son who was supposed to turn five in twenty-two day, hadn’t seen the fireworks, hadn’t seen the snow that had fallen the next day. It was not reasonable!  
  
His aunt and her family with their children were crying, sniffling and sobbing as they grieved for their young lost relative.  
  
_Dean giving a plucked dandelion to his grand-aunt as they came home from the bakery, sugary delights in the paper bag._  
  
_Dean helping his cousin pass the spoon as he watched her stir the cake mix._  
  
He was such a helpful little tyke; helping where he can.  
  
_Dean gave Mark, his cousin’s youngest son, a kiss on his bruised knee. Wiping the boy’s tears and making the younger boy giggle and smile._  
  
_Dean smiling as John tucked him in with his cousins, reading them the tale of King Arthur and the Knights of the round table._  
  
Dean was had the brightest smile and, when he had his voice, the best laugh he had ever heard.  
  
He touched the marbled rock of his son’s and then his wife’s, stroking the cool marble with adoration and love before he was dragged away by his aunt’s family.   
  
Now, he needed to find the one that killed Mary, which in turn killed his son too.

{einde?}

**Author's Note:**

> Words: 2,776
> 
> A/N:  
> There most probably might be a sequel to this oneshot.


End file.
